Impossible or not?
by I'm Nova
Summary: Stumbling into a double kidnapping, possibly leading to a criminal ring? Sherlock's day has been made. Pity the solution is impossible. Gift fic for scrub456's birthday. Happy birthday, my dear! It won't let me list Good Omens characters for some reason, but you can count on Aziraphale and Crowley.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Happy birthday scrub456! Sorry it's not birthday themed, but this plot wouldn't let me go. Hope you don't mind._

Impossible...or not? 

Somehow, the universe is doing this on purpose, John knows. Sherlock has never been one to take a stroll for its own sake. Chasing after someone? Sure. Walking miles to be sure not to miss anything when retracing a suspect's footsteps? Of course. Taking a walk because it's sunny and they have nothing better to do? That is met with eye rolls.

Still, John had managed to drag him out without a case. If it was powerful before, it's surprising how much a "For me?" can get, when they've (finally!) pulled their head out of their own arses and admitted that they want each other. The park is delightful, and just maybe, Sherlock could start to see his point.

Only a case is dumped in their laps. Cases, actually? Who knows. And this is reinforcing bad patterns, God, could you not? Ta very much.

John first notices the couple at the ice cream cart because they're cute. One looks like an Oxbridge professor, rotund and dressed in plaid and radiating the same happy, indulgent amiability that makes Stamford's courses so popular. His boyfriend (even John is betting on boyfriend, and he doesn't have Sherlock's encyclopedic knowledge of gay brands) tries so hard to look cool, all leather jacket and sunglasses , like a rockstar slipped out from a recording studio. It's still obvious that he's totally besotted. For some reason, he reminds John of a sunflower, despite not being blond.

Before he can point out the other couple to Sherlock, one of them gets kidnapped. Right there in the open. In the fucking park. And before he can so much as yell "Oi!" much less run to help, the other one is kidnapped too...by people running in the opposite direction. The fuck is this?

Sherlock frowns, examining the area. For all that they've seen it happen, there are little to no precious clues about the crimes. He's using the plural because despite the apparent coordination, something in the style is so different he can't see all of them sitting at the same table planning it. After all, a group went with being as nondescript as possible (of course, the sleuth would be able to recognise them), while the other decided that being as distracting as possible with details that can be easily dropped was the way to go. Sherlock quietly wows not to complain about his ridiculous hat anymore.

Dropped icecreams and the bushes' leaves rustling are all that remains, seconds later. No matter where he looks, or in which direction he takes a few strides, neither the criminals nor the victims are in sight. Did they teleport? Damn, he shouldn't have let John make him watch that scifi show... They couldn't have boldly brought their prisoners to a spaceship, could they? No one is quite that advanced yet.  
Never mind. If he can't find them now, he will soon. First thing first,acquire data on the victims.

John jogs after him to a bridge, where they find one of the Irregulars – a barely adult woman in a dirty green hoodie and leggings. To the couple's surprise, she nods immediately at the description...but instead of smiling, she warns them off. "Please, Mr. Holmes, don't get involved. We need you – need the work. And nothing good is going to come if you tangle with them." She clutches at his arm.  
"What are they involved with? Human trafficking? Drugs?"  
"Wish that I knew...no, actually, I don't. You know that professor type, who looks like he wouldn't hurt a fly? Well, he's actually a bookseller, and. He was there when I started sleeping rough, and I've been warned, because he looks so nice, you'd want to go up to him, ask for help, maybe, but the person who warned me said they'd been warned, and the dude telling them was warned, and...We don't think he's all that human. And if he is, and someone was just exaggerating, well, it doesn't change that he's maybe sold five books in a decade. And the shop is in a prime spot, and we've seen mafia men go there, so things started making sense, maybe, but – they went away afterwards. And if I've ever seen anyone look terrified, they were. In fact, it was never people from the same gang going twice. Whatever he does, it must be fucked up beyond measure. If someone decided to do away with him and his beau, I would be more worried about them," she rambles on.

"Where's the bookshop?" She makes no sense – what she's saying is 90% metropolitan legend. It has to be. But the shop might not just offer clues to the current cases, perhaps show what crimes they were already involved in. Going to Lestrade not just with a case or two already solved, but with the solution of God knows how many cold cases, will be brilliant.

However reluctant, she tells him...for a stronger 'encouragement' than usual, "should this be the last time".  
"Gee, cheers!" John quips.

Someone (is it Mycroft? He better keep his fat nose out of this) keeps getting in the way of the investigation. Everything slows them down, from street light red waves, no matter how they change path, to...Are these ducks at the crossing? He didn't know that Mycroft had ducks under his thumb, too.

When they finally arrive at the bookshop, the lock is quickly done with. The interior, though, is sadly deprived of captives or account books (after Mrs. Hudson's tutorial, he can spot anything illegal after one page).

John is the one to find a weird drawing on the floor. "Occult...something. What do you think?"  
What Sherlock thinks of it is a deep sigh, and a, "Couldn't we have smart criminals, for a change?" If they believe in it, it's depressingly stupid. If they con believers...it still doesn't require much, in his experience.

That's when the door opens. They hide behind some shelves...until Sherlock blurts out, "What?" seeing their victims walk in, seemingly cheerful.

"I thought we were closed," the bookseller says, walking up to them. He looks more embarrassed than put out. If the man can't even notice when his shop's lock has been picked, how can he deal with any criminals?

"It was, angel. Someone's been naughty," his boyfriend quips. Oh, so he's the sensible one.

"We were concerned." John opens his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"At the park,"Sherlock adds, sentences uncharacteristically chopped.

"Well, since it was done out of love, the least we can do is offer them a cup of tea before sending them on their way, don't you think, my dear?" 'Angel' – Fell, actually, nods toward a cozy area, with sofas and tables – well away from any weird drawing. "Now, since today's weather is so warm...what about an iced tea, anyone?"

His boyfriend gasps theatrically, "Why would you do that to tea?"  
"Because I'm the Southern pansy." Fell giggles, as if it's a private joke...which it probably is.

"Fine, but – not for me. You know I like things _hot _– who came up with putting ice everywhere had a weird sense of humour."

Instead of considering the offer, Sherlock snaps, "Who are you?"  
"Anthony J. Crowley, and that's a weird tone to take with someone whose friend you've tried to burgle." His arms cross, but he looks about ready to toss them outside. Not that John would blame him.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Sherlock Holmes, and while your make-up is really well done, I can't see it at all, you can't be the same man who was kidnapped...while enjoying a popsicle."

Crowley actually blushes, and Fell laughs. "My bad," their host says, raising his hands, "I didn't think of it. Good for us that nobody bothered to observe, uh?"  
"Nobody ever does," the sleuth agrees automatically.

"Simply put, I was him, and he was me. And by now everyone else is so embarrassed that they'll leave us alone for a while. Hopefully three or four centuries at least."

Despite all the amazing disguises John has seen Sherlock put on, this looks hard to pull off. Wigs, whatever...but the owner's gut doesn't look fake, to be rude. (Which he isn't. Not his business.)

Sherlock is, though. "How?" he asks, unconvinced.

The couple exchanges a look, shrugging at the same time. "Like this." They snap their fingers.  
Next thing, Sherlock is literally on the floor because of shock, and John is yelling, "Why is it always drugs?"

"No drugs, just a tiny little miracle. But you were trying to help Angel and me, so...you get one each, should you need it. It's only fair, don't you think, Angel?" the (now, again) redhead replies.

Fell nods. "Sure. Now, does someone want that tea?"

They don't. They're rushing out the shop – first step Molly, to run all the necessary analyses and, if necessary, take some antidote. And if they come up clean...Well, that's a good question. For later. What do you do with your local, possibly immortal miracle worker?


End file.
